


Lift me up with gentle hands

by bluu5 (emiliao)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiliao/pseuds/bluu5
Summary: It started out small.A bruise on the knee from jumping off of a small hill and missing his water bucket, minor injuries while building the hotel. No one bats an eye really— it's just Tommy being Tommy.It started out small, but a snowball rolling from a hill is bound to get bigger and bigger, until it crashes and breaks at the very bottom. Tommy promises he won't crash.He lies.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 371





	Lift me up with gentle hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm may be projecting a bit, but who cares anymore?  
> Dsmp writers give Tommy a therapy arc challenge

It started out small.

Small enough to not be noticeable by anyone, not even to those who knew Tommy for most of their lives.

A bruise on the knee from jumping off of a small hill and missing his water bucket, scrapes on his arms from carelessly running across a dense forest, minor injuries while building the hotel. They stack up, but never too much, Tommy isn't stupid enough to let that happen. And no one complains - it's just Tommy being Tommy, a reckless kid who doesn't care nor look out for himself. It's how it always was and will be.

It eventually gets to a point where even Tommy doesn't notice that something might be wrong with him - that's just how good he's gotten at wearing masks and smiling through it all. Everything is fine, Dream is in jail and he's finally free to do whatever. No one can hurt him anymore. He's fine.

But he smiles just a _little_ too much.

One day, Tubbo offers his jacket during a visit to Snowchester. Frostbite can be a bitch to deal with, especially when all you have is a thin shirt in the middle of a snow biome. Tommy eases his worries with a laugh and a pat on the shoulder. "I won't be here for long, big man, don't worry!"

The snow doesn't affect him, he's gotten used to cold climates ever since the stay with Techno.

_He lies, suppressing the shivers racking his small frame._

The brunette's concerned glance is weird, uncomfortable. It just looks _wrong_ in Tommy's skewered perception of the world. He inwardly cringes and bids his goodbye, massaging his fingers to calm the subtle twitching as he walks away.

The thought that something feels off leaves Tubbo as soon as Tommy disappears beyond the horizon. After all, he has a whole commune to be worried about besides his best friend.

Sam always gives him food. Constantly nagging about how his day's been, are his injuries healing alright, is he hungry or tired from all the work at the construction site. Tommy's laugh is an octave higher, grinding against ears and maybe just a tad louder than normal. He makes jokes about him sounding like an overprotective parent, even when it's just basic concern.

He ate earlier anyway, they should get back to work for now.

_He lies, puking out the sandwich Sam offered when he's not looking._

Puffy asks for her pickaxe back during a mining venture. Adamantly, Tommy gives it back, taking out his own, less enchanted version. When retreating, she offers him to stay the night at her place, noticing the hunched shoulders and dark lines under the kid's eyes. Tommy reassures her there's no need, he'll get a bit more iron for Sam Nook and call it quits later.

He's not that tired yet.

_He lies, watching her disappearing back and using the wall as support while his vision spins._

He's fine.

But he lies, and lies, and lies, not even noticing it half of the time. A small voice in the back of his head, the one that reeks of gunpowder and musty ravines, keeps telling him to push further. He'll keep feeling alright if he _just_ misses another meal, if he _just_ gets another stack of wood instead. People keep leaving _because he's not useful_ , so why not turn a new leaf and start becoming one? Maybe then they'll start giving a shit.

The echoes of sore muscles and sleepless nights kept him alive during his exile, kept him on his toes and aware of everything. It worked then, it'll work now. 

The voice is gentle, so he listens. That's what people always wanted from him, right? _To listen._

It started out small, but a snowball rolling from a hill is bound to get bigger and bigger, until it crashes and breaks at the very bottom.

Tommy isn't concerned of what he's not aware of, and he'll take the bliss of ignorance over realization any day. He won't crash.

_He lies._

* * *

At one point, small doesn't feel enough anymore. 

While Sam is busy with fixing the hotel beacon, Tommy sits away from his sight, staring at nothing in particular. Recently his body has been feeling... weird. Not the hurting, tired type of weird, nor the content, comfortable one. Something just doesn't feel right, out of place even, and there's an itch at the back of his head that he can't seem to scratch no matter how reckless or hurt he gets.

He notices his hand shaking again and a familiar irritation at this ridiculous situation spikes. A red-hot mix of rage and frustration begins to burn in his stomach, crushing his ribs and leaving him breathless. His knuckles turn white from clenching his fist so hard, teeth gritted from the effort to remain silent as his hunched form exudes an animosity that's like acid - burning, slicing, potent.

_It's not fair._

Arm still twitching he grabs his own wrist, willing for this trembling to stop, for this feeling to vanish and never rear its ugly head again. He doesn't want to be this weak anymore. He despises wars and chaos, curses this peaceful time, and spits at his neutrality status. He's tired, and angry, and sick and bored and uncomfortable and—

"I think the beacon's fine now, should work as intended!"

Sam's voice snaps Tommy out of his spiral in an instant, making him aware of just how hard he was clenching his wrist. Carefully releasing it, red markings in form of fingers slowly appear underneath his skin as blood finally has a way to flow back into his hand. 

As sudden as it came, his spiteful self-hatred and fury drains away, and he’s left only with increasing pain on his arm. The uncomfortableness isn't gone, but it's reduced to a point where it can be ignored.

He thinks.

"Tommy?!"

Right. No time for breaks. Shaking his head he stands up and meets Sam, playfully complaining about taking so long and turning to continue on with the hotel.

If Sam notices the forming bruise on the other's arm or the small twitches of Tommy's body, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, Tommy's work is reduced to gathering red dye for the day, and no one complains about it.

* * *

At night, Tommy thinks more.

Sleep doesn't bless him anymore, hasn't for a long time now, so instead, he thinks. Shifting on the bed to lay on his back, he raises his aching wrist above his head and frowns. The bruise is purple now, a stark contrast to his usual deathly-pale skin. Carefully, he traces the outline of it, hissing when a particularly sensitive spot is touched.

That same, uncomfortable feeling from before comes back with a raging vengeance, as he puts his other hand back into the same spot, squeezing lightly. Pain instantly throbs up his wrist, but Tommy grits his teeth, tightening his grip even further. He lets go only when tears prick his eyes and he can't take much more.

Panting lightly he sets his hands back onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling of his dirt home. For the first time in a while, he realizes something must be wrong with him. This isn't... right. He locked Dream away from everyone, sacrificed everything for a chance of a happy ending, lost almost every single thing he cared about, and yet... 

Why wasn't he okay by now? How much longer did he have to wait to feel normal again? Where was that momentary triumph he felt as soon as the prison was out of sight and he was soaring through the skies with Dream's trident? Where was that sweet embrace of familiarity that made his heart leap in joy and comfort?

_Why did it feel like his eyes were still stormy gray, not a speck of that ice-blue reflecting in them?_

He felt sick.

Stumbling to his feet, Tommy rushes out of his bed and straight into the bathroom, the feeling of a bile clogging his throat making the room spin. He slumps in front of the toilet, violently choking on air and willing for his stomach to empty itself. The relief never comes; he still hasn't eaten today.

Tommy greedily gasps for air, his burning body shivering against the cool floor underneath. He wants to scream. He wants to scream about everything that's wrong with him until his throat is hoarse and he’s struggling to breathe, until his lungs give out and all that's left of him is a mute mess. Tommy's head pounded, his wrist throbbed, his throat ached, and a thousand other pains plagued him. They all combined into a cacophony of pain and discomfort, one that stifled all his other senses and threatened to overwhelm him. And yet, none of it compared to that twisted feeling of wrongness burning in his chest.

A beast that could only be calmed if he's exhausted downright to death. 

**_'Peace doesn't suit you.'_ **

A white glint catches Tommy's eye as he notices discarded scissors on the other side of the bathroom.

In a moment of impulse, he crawls towards them, gripping the blade and trying to catch his breath. He's angry and panicked and searching for a way out from this miserable state. A distraction, anything to vent all that bubbling frustration out.

No one's ever taught him how to deal with mental issues- you can't wage a war against your own head, just like you can't stab depression away. _'I'm not depressed though.'_ He grits his teeth _'Depressed people get pity, and I'd rather die than be pitied like some weak kid.'_

The rational Tommy was offline and the primitive Tommy, who reverted to his old habits, was threatening to erupt like a volcano. He wants to punch someone, sink that blade through someone's throat, to let that blinding rage consume his fragile body and _feel okay for once, make them pay, stop giving his heart out and start taking for once in his fucking life_ \- he slaps himself hard enough for the thoughts to dissipate.

_That's not right_ , his head screams. So he pulls the scissors closer to himself.

He'd rather be violent on himself than others.

That's what he's been taught to do, _that_ was right. People have been hurt enough because of him, it's about time he's suffered for once.

The blade is mesmerizing, whispering empty promises with warm words. He deserved this, more pain more spilled _blood more suffering to feel good make it feel right you aren't supposed to be alive make it right more more moremoremoremor—_

His hand is still trembling, even as he sits frozen in place while the scissors hover mere millimeters above his throat.

Somewhere far away, a melody of a familiar guitar catches Tommy off-guard. That raspy, comforting voice echoes in his ears in sorrowful waves, mercilessly hacking away at his heart while simultaneously enveloping his body in warmth. It took the sting from emotions that needed feeling, that needed coddling as a teddy bear and soothed until they vanished as the ghosts they always were.

His hand limply fell to the floor as the other furiously scrubbed at the tears pouring down his face.

Wilbur wouldn't want this. **His** Wilbur would smack him on the head and go on an angry lecture about self-preservation while gently tending to his bruises. He wouldn't wish for his baby brother, his sun to destroy himself over and over again only to chase after that feeling of belonging.

Self-destruction wasn't right.

Then again, who was Wilbur to talk about taking care of yourself?

The **Pogtopia** Wilbur would encourage this, wouldn't he...? He'd marvel at the absolute destruction of his despicable brother, the one who held on too tightly onto his morals, the one who refused to see Wilbur's perspective time and time again. He'd wish for Tommy's suffering to never end.

Another strum of the guitar.

...but neither images of Wilbur would want him dead, would they?

With a sign, Tommy lets his head rest on the freezing floor of the bathroom, closing his eyes and losing himself in that soft melody of better times. Everything was wrong, but just for this minute, he let himself believe he'll be alright. Just one moment of peace, that's all he ever deserved.

If Tommy is a bit more silent the next day and even more in the following weeks, no one bats an eye.

If the bandages keep multiplying and his recklessness increases, no one mentions it.

If there's a certain chill trailing after him and sometimes it feels like there's another pair of eyes watching them, no one comments on it.

Tommy is smiling. He's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it will get better:) I hate seeing my fav character in constant pain, so awesamdad is just *chefs kiss*


End file.
